


Cold Night in the Big Apple

by Allana



Category: Metallica
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allana/pseuds/Allana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feathery flakes of snow settle in the riotous curls of Jason's hair and a few fragile flakes catch in his eyelashes until he dashes them away with an angry swipe of his arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Night in the Big Apple

**Author's Note:**

> This is the earliest I've written Jason, and he sounds more than a little pathetic. Poor sod. Written years ago for the fanfic100 challenge on LJ; the prompt was "snow" and this was the first thing that popped into my head.
> 
> Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. It did not happen and I'm not implying it did. This fiction in no way represents the people mentioned within or the way they would behave. No impeachment of or malice toward the people mentioned here is intended.

Feathery flakes of snow settle in the riotous curls of Jason's hair and a few fragile flakes catch in his eyelashes until he dashes them away with an angry swipe of his arm. His possessions litter the sidewalk, soaking up the brown-gray slush.

Nothing stays clean for long in New York.

Another flurry of snow. The bitter wind swirls around his bare legs, whistling through his boxers to shrivel his balls. He squats and starts to pull all his shit into a pile, ignoring the stares and laughter of passersby.

A car drives by and showers him with slush. _Fuckers._ He’s too cold, too tired to be humiliated. But angry. He can definitely do angry. White-hot rage straining to break loose and manipulate him, a puppet on taut, bitter strings. _Probation. Remember the fucking probation_ , his mind whispers frantically to the raging caveman at the front of his brain. Three months to go. Three long months and maybe, just maybe, they’ll stop all this fucking shit. He keeps his movements slow and deliberate--as much as possible with chilled, clumsy fingers--as he jams his tapes into his pillowcase. _Need to get a new pillow from housekeeping...._ Odds are they’ll never play again; all the fucking slush’ll stick the tape together. So, that’s a few years worth of bootlegs gone. Nice.

Something settles over his head and the world goes white for a moment. He flails wildly... and pulls a shirt from his head. It’s hard to make out his window through the falling snow, but he’s pretty sure that it’s the one with curtains flapping madly and what looks like--he scrunches up his face in a squint, wishing he’d been able to find his glasses--a pair of his shorts hanging from the window latch. James is watching him, he’s certain of that. He’d think it was his imagination if he hadn’t caught James surreptitiously watching him over the last few months.

He shakes slush out of a sneaker and dumps it, and its mate, into the middle of a shirt. Ironically, his bare feet are turning numb in the freezing slush on the sidewalk. Eerie numbness spreads through him, creeping through his veins like an invader. What’s the point in getting upset? There’s never going to be an end to all the fucking hazing. He looks up at the window again and realises he’s not sure whether the sudden hardness of his nipples is a result of the cold, or the thought of James.

He ties the corners of the shirt into a bundle, and hefts it with the pillowcase as he stands. He seriously considers ramming a stick through the bundle and heading off down the highway like the Littlest Hobo, but it’s too fucking cold. The doorman unbends himself sufficiently to hold the door open for him, and Jason mutters, “Thanks for nothing, buddy,” as he squelches into the hotel, back to the devastation of his room.

#

**Author's Note:**

> NEWSTED: One time, it's four in the morning, they're hammered and knocking on my hotel door when we were in New York. "Get up, fucker! It's time to drink, Pussy!" You know? "You're in Metallica now! You better open that fucking door!" They kept pounding. Kaboom! The door frame shreds, and the door comes flying in. And they go, "You should have answered the door, bitch!" They grab the mattress and flip it over with me on it. They put the chairs, the desk, the TV stand - everything in the room - on top of the mattress. They threw my clothes, my cassette tapes, my shoes out the window. Shaving cream all over the mirrors, toothpaste everywhere. Just devastation. They go running out the door, "Welcome to the band, dude!"


End file.
